“What’s bees mean?” She leaned over to me, the leather of the pedicure chair squeaking, her phone extended.
Confused, thinking of winged aphids with vicious stingers I read the text.
” . . . BS? What’s BS?”
I’m sure that as soon as she asked the question the answer popped into her head.
Her infectious laugh rippled across the room. I shook my head giggling “bees”.
When Husband and I first started dating he made mention of talking to his “Mommy” – had the car been moving I might have asked him to pull over and let me out. My heart started to pound and arm pits did their thing. I liked this man a lot. A lot a lot. He was well past the age of 12 and yet still used the word . . . Mommy? *shudder* Normally that’s not a good thing.
First visit to the land of 10,000 lakes they met us with flowers. Future-Husband had mentioned that I was kinda sorta really sick and had no voice. At the house full of bouncing dogs and framed pictures of future-husband through the years there was hot chicken noodle soup waiting for me. Vegetarian chicken noodle soup. I was quite touched by the gesture. “That’s my mommy” This time the word didn’t make me sweat or want to leave. That is a good thing.
Between visits one and three a lot of shit went down. A lot a lot. Weddingproposalonthebeachtentativedatesetthenbustedthatiwasareallybadpersonso wassoverymessedupandwasdatingsomeoneelsetooshortlyafterwhichmygallbladderexplodedwillbehusbandmeetsmyparentsanddiscoversthattheyrenotexactlyorthodox(orevenjewish)andthatsnotevenallofit . . .
I am biting the bullet, sucking out the poison, making amends, begging forgiveness, doing whatever it takes to make. things. right. I mail a letter. It’s easier to put ink to the page than speak the words. Eventually though, on the way to meet the Rabbi for the second time, I make the call. I stutter and feel the heat rush to my face even though we are thousands of miles apart.
“We fell in love with you a long time ago. We’ll do what we can to help and support you.” I manage to hold back the hot tears until I get off the phone.
We meet again, this time in the 603 for my pool party. She gifts me candlesticks, a traditional gift given by mothers when their daughters become Bat Mitzvehed. They are beautiful.
Room is given for us to make our own traditions, to find my comfort level. I tell her about the matzoh ball soup I made that wasn’t so good.
“No, you don’t know how to make that yet.” She says, kindly.
I pause. Confused since I’m pretty sure I did in fact make it for Friday night Shabbat dinner.
“I haven’t shown you how to make it yet.”
“That’s bees!” I protest, laughing. The problem is solved on our next visit. She tells me her secret.
Together we shop for the dress I will wear when I marry her oldest son. Her face lights up just as brightly as mine when I find the.one. We gift her a bracelet at our rehearsal dinner with a silver bee charm.
She loves deeply. Unconditionally. We text, call and laugh.
She is beautiful. As far as Mother in Law’s go – I have no complaints.
**Point of order – as far as Father In Law’s go I have no complaints either. None at all but those words are for another post.**
*** Also – I am very untalented with the whole “grab my button!” thing and it never seems to work on here – this post is linked up with Kelly at Today was a Fairytale. ***